


Three words. Eight letters.

by Kru



Series: of witchers and bards [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Declarations Of Love, Drinking & Talking, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Geralt please, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Porn with Feelings, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Shameless Smut, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Topping from the Bottom, also, and thanks gods for Eskel, witchers just wanna have fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23754895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kru/pseuds/Kru
Summary: “Really,” Eskel picks up, suddenly interested in the subject. “And how does that happen?”“Oh, he got an invite,” the bard gives out and now doesn’t move his eyes off of the white-haired witcher. “From a very beautiful and very eager… Lady.”“Jaskier,” Geralt warns him lowly.“Oh, no-no-no, don’t Jaskier me now,” the bard stipulates.“Exactly, don’t Jaskier him,” Lambert hushes the other witcher. “We need to hear that story.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: of witchers and bards [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626238
Comments: 97
Kudos: 1190
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Locktea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Locktea/gifts).



> Because I really wanted for them to admit all that aloud and because [Luainn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luainn/pseuds/Luainn) gave me a prompt.
> 
> But mostly because I really wanted to thank my amazing beta - [locktea](https://locktea.tumblr.com/)

He watches how the man pours himself another good portion of the hooch and then moves to refill the glasses of his drinking companions. When he reaches Geralt’s, the witcher covers it with his hand and moves it out of the bard’s reach.

“I think you’ve had enough,” he grunts and gets only a snort in response.

Sitting beside him, Lambert bumps into his side for what feels like the hundredth time that night, and adds, “Why are you so fucking crusty today!?”

“Yeah, Geralt,” Jaskier picks up as he settles back on his spot between two other witchers at the table and continues with a defiant smile, “Go on, tell them why. Tell them all the reasons why you don’t want to let your dearest _travel_ companion drink with your friends.”

Even though Jaskier’s words come out too long on each syllable and with less of his usual flourish, Geralt can easily detect how some of them carry more pressure than the others.

“I’m not crusty,” he grunts in response, looking intensely at the bard to let him know that this is not the best time to start their argument again.

“You’re the crustiest person I’ve ever known,” Eskel comments and holds his glass up.

“It takes one to know one,” Coën notices and does the same, adding, “So let’s drink to our crusty company!”

The witchers take the alcohol in one gulp. Geralt sees how Jaskier winces at its bitterness although he doesn’t empty all of his glass like on the rounds before. The witcher thinks that it’s somehow comforting to know the bard still has some traces of self-preservation left in him, but “some” is the operative word here. They are on their seventh round and even though he knows that Jaskier can hold his liquor, he’s still not an opponent for a group of men twice his size and with the post-mutation endurance.

Jaskier doesn’t bother to wait as he pours another round, trying not to return Geralt’s look. The witcher feels as his jaw tighten from holding on to all the words he wants to say but can’t right now. Luckily none of the other witchers hold their cups out again and instead they go back to asking Jaskier to sing their favorite songs. Most of them are obscene but this is better than letting him get himself utterly drunk.

The bard starts to shout rather than sing. He does that out of tune and without the usual accompaniment of his lute which is for the best because he probably wouldn’t even know how to hold the instrument right now. He still isn’t completely drunk, but he already lost some of his motor skills and some words are particularly difficult to express for him. For what he loses in those two departments, he makes up for with his imagination, describing more and more vivid and salacious scenes. And for that, his drinking companions award him with a hail of applause and encouraging cheers.

In normal circumstances Geralt would have been in this company, drinking and singing in tow, but those aren’t normal circumstances. Not when Jaskier tries to coax him into admitting something he doesn’t want to admit. No. He isn’t going to say he wasn’t right. He was. He was right when he said that they can’t share a room during their stay in Kaer Morhen.

Staying in the same room here isn’t as easy as when they are on the path, when they can tell the innkeeper whatever version of truth suits them that day. Here, accommodation like that would have required a lot of explanations. He would have to lie to Vesemir and he neither wants to, nor can he lie to the man. But Jaskier doesn’t understand that. In his perception of the world, the thing between them is natural. And Geralt thinks that too, because how can something that feels this good be abnormal? But he is also far more realistic about people and their nature to not be as accepting as Jaskier might think. Even if they are like family. Especially when they are like family. He can’t lose their respect or support. He can’t also lose this place, his shelter, his home. For a witcher, losing his nest can mean a near end.

So here they are, after a long fight on their way here, tired, barely sharing a word since they stepped through Kaer Morhen‘s gates, glaring at each other from separate ends of the table and still without sleeping arrangements. And Jaskier is drunker by each passing minute which means he cares less and less about what comes out of his mouth. And while normally this is a very good thing, especially when he whispers to Geralt’s ear all those filthy things as he slowly rides him, all languid and liquid in his arms, now it seems to be Geralt’s curse.

“Tell me,” Lambert suddenly says when he unceremoniously wipes the taste of alcohol from his lips with his sleeve. “Did you two come across some fine brothels lately?”

“Why?” Eskel asked, amused. “It’s not like they’ll take you as a guest in any.”

“They’ll take him on as a curiosity,” Coën snorts and adds, “They’ll show him and his big balls around.”

They all laugh, and the bard tries to fill their cups again, but he doesn’t manage to aim for Lambert’s, pouring half of the hooch on the table.

“Not the worst way to live,” Lambert shrugs and takes the jug from the bard. “I’m sure there are people eager to not only see them but also take good care of them,” he concludes and fills up Geralt's cup.

“Ha! People,” Jaskier notices triumphantly, giggling to himself as he sits back. “ _All_ people,” he adds, smiling to the red haired witcher.

“One needs to take what destiny brings when one doesn’t want to die from blue balls,” Coën explains, clipping his cup against the Jaskier’s and asks, “Do you have a problem with that, bard?”

Jaskier holds his hands up in surrender, mumbling, “No, no, no problem at all. I’m all for versatility, flexibility and any other noun. But Geralt on the other hand,” the bard trails and gives the witcher a sly smile as he continues , “Geralt, my sweet Geralt, the mighty White Wolf, your tireless companion on the path,” he pauses going for dramaturgy, suddenly saying, “Has been to a really fine bawdy house lately and doesn’t want to share with you all those new pleasures he experienced there.”

“Really,” Eskel picks up, suddenly interested in the subject. “And how does that happen?”

“Oh, he got an invite,” the bard gives out and now doesn’t move his eyes off of the white-haired witcher. “From a very beautiful and very eager… _Lady_.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns him lowly.

“Oh, no-no-no, don’t Jaskier me now,” the bard stipulates.

“Exactly, don’t Jaskier him,” Lambert hushes the other witcher. “We need to hear that story.”

“There is nothing to hear,” The witcher huffs out and stands up to go to the kitchen hearth.

He throws a few logs into the fire, praying quietly for the subject to end with his dismissal but then he hears Eskel.

“I’m sure there is a song,” the man guesses correctly, looking between them with an amused expression.

“There is!” Jaskier shouts and jumps off his seat.

He hums a few times to prepare his voice but when he opens his mouth, Geralt cuts in.

“Come on, you can barely stand,” he says with a tired voice and comes closer to the bard. “I’ll take you upstairs and spare you the embarrassment of them hearing you whine like a slaughtered pig.”

Jaskier inhales swiftly, choking on the air. He tears his arm from Geralt’s reach, exclaiming, “I beg to differ! I neither never had nor ever will sound like a slaughtered pig!”

The witcher only arches his eyebrows suggestively and adds before he thinks, “Don’t let me remind you on which occasions I heard you sound like one.”

The other men laugh out loud and Lambert only comments, “Maybe we should hear this song.”

“Maybe you should,” Jaskier murmurs ominously. “Maybe you should hear the song about how I lov–” Jaskier starts but is unable to finish.

Geralt moves abruptly, catching the bard around the waist to swiftly hold him up. Without much effort and using the man’s astonishment to his advantage, the witcher hoists him over his own shoulder.

“Geralt –the fuck!” Jaskier shouts when the other witchers burst into an even louder cheer. “You damn witcher! Put me down!”

“Teach him a lesson!” Coën says, breaking into a fit of laughter.

Eskel only gazes at Geralt with an apology written all over his face, explaining quietly, “Apart from your room, we don’t have any more empty ones left.”

“Ha!” Jaskier snorts and even being upside down he manages to mumble, “I knew that one was a lie!” 

Geralt breathes out slowly and adjusting his hold over the bard’s legs, he answers Eskel, “That’ll do. We’ll talk about the rest tomorrow.”

His companion nods shortly, snorting a short laugh when the bard tries to bite Geralt’s buttocks but instead he bumps his face into the muscle. The witcher lets him slide a bit and Jaskier isn’t able to hold in a squeak that causes another wave of laughter. It haunts them even on the staircase.

“That was rude,” the bard says and Geralt, even not seeing him, knows that the man pouts.

He hums in response and slowly but steadily carries Jaskier up the first floor. He can still hear raised voices coming from downstairs but apart from those and the wheezing wind, the stronghold is mostly quiet. Or it was quiet because the bard starts to talk again.

“You’re the worst lover I’ve ever had,” he huffs annoyed, bracing himself on the witcher’s back as not to bounce off of him with every step as he continues his rant, “Absolute worst. We never do what I want. We never go where I want. It’s always Jaskier don’t do that and don’t do this.”

“You weren’t complaining yesterday,” Geralt murmurs, walking now along a vast corridor.

This hall is pitch black and if not for his heightened senses he wouldn’t know where to put his foot. Vesemir keeps usage of the torches to a bare minimum as these days they suffer a shortage of every article, especially after a severe winter as the one that just passed.

“Yesterday I didn’t know you were going to be ashamed of me!” the bard hisses and he finally subsides, waiting for a reaction.

The witcher doesn’t respond. He just holds Jaskier’s legs tighter as he opens the door to one of the rooms at the end of the corridor. The space is warm and filled with a soft glow as the hearth burns high. It’s probably Eskel’s doing. Same as the jug filled with water, a freshly made bed and their saddlebags tucked neatly in one of the chamber’s corners.

“You can put me down,” Jaskier demands, slapping one of his buttocks. “I can’t embarrass you here.”

“With you,” Geralt says but he comes to bed and throws the bard off of his shoulder and onto the fur he adds, “One can never be too sure.”

The bard fumbles for a moment in the softness of all the layers before he manages to turn around.

“And you could be a tad more delicate,” he complains but his focus is already on his shirt’s buttons.

Watching skeptically from above as the man tries to unbutton those tiny knobs, Geralt says decisively, “I’ll find a place to sleep.”

Jaskier suddenly jerks his head up, looking at him far too sober for someone who had at least nine shots of witcher’s hooch.

“What?” he asked sharply.

“I’ll sleep downstairs,” the witcher says as he ignores the bard's sudden consciousness and tugs at one of the furs. “You’ll have the room to yourself.”

“Don’t you think it’ll look even more suspicious?” Jaskier tries again, holding one side of the cover that the man tries to tug on.

He finally gives up seeing his opponent’s sturdiness. He lets go of the fur and the swiftness of the gesture pushes the witcher back. Geralt doesn’t look up. He can’t. He knows that if he looks at Jaskier he’ll stay. He knows how the bard looks now. His clothes are rumbled. His hair is a mess. His face is flushed by alcohol. His lips red and wet because when Jaskier drinks they go too dry and he licks them constantly. And Geralt knows how they taste. He knows it because he had them so many times before and he wants them a million times that. He wants them so much. He wants Jaskier even more. And his scent. Gods, the scent. Geralt wants to just bury his face into that skin and smell. The scent of lavender and rosemary and sun. The scent of happiness.

But he can’t. Not here. Not while he knows that it would put them both under scrutiny. Or even worse. It’ll make Jaskier feel like a monster too. It’ll make him feel like a pariah, an abomination only made to be despised and condemned. And Geralt lives this life. He knows how it can be hard. He knows he doesn’t want this for the only person he–

He shakes his head to stop that trail of thoughts. It’s not the place and time. Now he has to get out of here before he won’t be able to move. He aims for the door and puts his hand on the handle when suddenly a whisper holds him back.

“I do not plan on chasing you forever, you know?” Jaskier says surly behind his back and that makes Geralt hold his breath when the bard adds after a heartbeat, “So, for a change, you have to stop running away from me.”

The witcher breathes out heavy, feeling as if his legs can’t move. He isn’t able to even shift his finger. He can’t push on the handle. Instead, he rests his forehead on the wood, closing his eyes.

“I’m not running away,” he finally manages to say.

And at the same moment, he feels something else. He feels warm arms wrapping around his waist. A solid, cordial body presses to his back. Jaskier instantly melts into his shape and takes over him. He presses his hot cheek to the nape of Geralt’s neck, breathing out with contentment and easily sensed relief.

“You’re running,” he repeats stubbornly.

“I want to protect you,” Geralt explains calmly.

Jaskier fingers crush the fabric of Geralt’s shirt as he murmurs, “Not like this. Not by pushing me away.”

“I don’t. That’s the point,” the witcher presses through clenched teeth. “I want to keep you close. This. All of it.”

The bard snorts but there is no heat behind it. He feels how Jaskier’s lips pressed to his skin form a smile. He presses into Geralt further, impossibly close, and he can’t resist anymore. He covers Jaskier's hand with his, pushing it harder into his skin.

“I get it,” the bard says eventually. “And I don’t mind not flaunting this around in front of strangers. I don’t care about them,” he stresses in the last word and continues surely, “But I care about your friends. Your family. I want them to know that I’m yours. And I want them to realize that you belong to me. And I’m not some delicate damsel in distress. I can take care of myself. I can fight for what we have in the same way you fight to protect me. And I’m not going to run away when somebody calls me a monster. Because I know I’m not one in the same way I’ve never seen you as such. And I never will. Never.”

Geralt chokes on a breath when Jaskier’s words flow over him and fill him to the brim with so many sensations that he can’t separate or fully recognize. There is shame in there. There is pride. And happiness. And guilt. Relief. Trust. Hope.

His fingers crush Jaskier’s knuckles, intertwining them together. The thought that he might have lost this man because of his stupidity suddenly settles over him heavily and pushes him into the floor. Can it be he’s been mistaken for all this time? Can it be he overlooked the most important thing?

He opens his eyes and straightens. He doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand, but he tries to look at the man above his shoulder.

“Back in the kitchen, before I interrupted you,” he starts to say very quietly. “Do you mean it?”

“What?” the bard huffs the word into his skin. “What, Geralt? What do I mean?”

“Three words,” the witcher mutters. “Eight letters.”

“I do,” Jaskier answers lightly. “I do love you Geralt of Rivia.”

The witcher releases air that he didn’t even know he held, and it comes out as a moan. He loosens his grip on Jaskier’s hand because Gods only know how much he needs to see his face now. And when he does that, when their fingers untangle, he feels how much they are shaking. And he’s never experienced that. He’s never been so afraid in his whole life. But he manages to turn around. He takes the bard’s face into his hands. His fingers brush his cheeks, smooth over brows. Thumbs find their place on Jaskier’s lips, skimming them softly.

“Teach me then,” Geralt whispers. “Teach me how I can be like you.”

And Jaskier only smiles. It’s a bright smile, one that the witcher hasn’t seen for a long time. He smiles and takes Geralt’s hands off of him but quickly puts them around his waist and his arms find their way around the witcher’s neck, bringing them closer. And he kisses Geralt. He kisses him hungrily, desperate and urgent.

Geralt is the one to move first. He presses into Jaskier’s body, pushing him back. He never leaves his lips, marking them in short, eager kisses as he guides them toward the bed until the bard’s legs hit its edge. Jaskier falls back into the softness of many covers but this time he bursts out into his carefree, infectious laugh.

“Tell me what you want,” Geralt says, smiling back and kneeling between the bard’s legs.

In a moment he leans in above his body, traps the man’s wrist and holds them on each side of Jaskier’s head, biting into his lips again.

“You,” the bard huffs in between one kiss and another, “Only you.”

The witcher smiles into his lips. Licking again into that hot mouth he feels Jaskier wrap his legs around Geralt’s waist to pull him even closer. And he comes willingly. He leans further, colliding their bodies harder. Even through layers of fabric Geralt can feel how ready the bard is and how desperate he wants to be near him.

His hands travel lower, leaving Jaskier’s hands. He slides them through his sides, causing a noticeable shiver. The bard arches, looking for more contact. His hips shift up, dragging long, hard strokes against the witcher’s groin.

“Jaskier,” Geralt barely manages to huff into the man’s ear. “I won’t hold long,” he adds and hisses when the bard’s hips push back again.

“Good,” the bard whispers and there is this sureness to his voice that sends another wave of desire down deep Geralt’s body.

The witcher moans louder and bites on the soft skin behind the bard’s ear to resist the urge to just tear their clothes and shove into this body hard and deep. Instead he breathes in Jaskier’s scent one more time and moves back. He rests above the bard, not paying attention to a suddenly disappointed groan when he kneels back on the bed.

“I thought we’re doing it my way,” Jaskier complains, trying to bring Geralt close again with his legs still around the witcher’s waist.

“We are,” the man agrees and starts to work the buttons of his shirt. He gets rid of it in a few effective moves, adding, “But I need us naked for that.”

Throwing the shirt behind his back he reaches for Jaskier pants, impatiently tugging at strings that don’t want to open.

“Hey,” Jaskier smacks the witcher’s hands “Those are my best.”

Geralt only snorts and just pulls them down in one, strong motion, finally putting his hands on bare, hot skin. His fingers run along Jaskier’s throbbing thighs and he rolls the fabric further, letting the man free from it.

“You are a brute,” the bard huffs.

“A little birdy told me that apparently...” Geralt says with a cocky smile and reaches for Jaskier’s shirt to pull it off of him in one smooth motion and leaning closer, he adds, “You love me like that.”

Jaskier runs his palms down the witcher’s body and yanks on the buttons of his pants as he repeats pushing his hands inside, “I do. I really, really do. Oh Gods, how I do,” he almost sings, wrapping his fingers around Geralt’s cock.

The witcher jerks back. The feeling is overwhelming. It always is. But this time he’s impossibly hard, on edge, and the feeling of long, warm fingers and rough hands is almost too much.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, hovering over the man only by the power of his shaking arms. “Jaskier, that– Fuck.”

Geralt hangs his head, unable to hold it up. His forehead hits Jaskier’s chest as the man moves his hand deliberately slowly while warm fingers of his other hand slip under the tight leather of his pants, pushing it down.

“Help me,” Jaskier demands when he’s unable to reach further.

The witcher nods, barely visible but he can’t move. The fingers are slick. So impossibly hot. Jaskier knows exactly what to do. He knows by now every weak point. He knows how to press and how to pull. He knows how to drive him mad with only his soft touch and gentle tugs. He knows everything about Geralt. Every place to give pleasure. Every place to inflict pain. He knows it all.

“Geralt,” he hears a tone that means an order. “Get out of those damn pants,” Jaskier adds, suddenly holding him tighter to smear drops of precum with his thumb.

“Jas–fuck,” he groans and tries to tilt his hips into the hand.

But Jaskier is merciless as he opens his palm and only says, “Pants.”

Geralt holds himself up and locks his gaze with the bard, he pulls them down and kicks them off of his legs as he presses through clenched teeth, “Happy?”

Jaskier snorts a laugh and purrs, “Very.”

And suddenly he comes closer. He uses a moment of Geralt’s inattentiveness to push him back. In one smooth motion, he swiftly takes over the witcher’s body. Throwing him on the bed, he straddles his thighs.

Geralt’s hands find their place on the bard’s hips momentarily as they work on muscle memory. Because he also knows Jaskier. He knows where to press him and when to pull. He knows every place on this body that can conduct immaculate pleasure and cause pain. He knows it all. And he loves it all.

He watches as the man reaches behind. Hot fingers wrap around him again but this time not to tease but to guide. Jaskier props himself up above Geralt. His thighs tremble when he moves up. And he is a mess. His skin shines with sweat, all sticky and slick. His hair is completely disheveled. His eyes wide, almost dark in the shadows of the chamber. It’s a sum of delicate curves and sharp lines. Of his hips. Of his shoulders. Of his skin kissed by the sun. It’s a revelation.

And maybe because of that at first Geralt doesn’t realize what Jaskier wants to do. He is too stunned, too mesmerized. But when suddenly the bard moves even further up, the witcher holds his hips tighter and stops him.

“Jaskier, don’t,” he whispers. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“We’re doing this my way,” the man laughs, rocking slowly above his body. “Remember?”

“Fuck, I do, I do,” Geralt huffs and his hips jerk up on their own. “But you’re not pre–” he starts but Jaskier just leans in and drinks the rest of his words with a kiss.

Just as the bard’s lips take control of Geralt’s mouth, biting in hungrily and demanding, he works himself on the witcher’s length. And for a long moment, Geralt’s mind is just wiped. The pleasure is so immense and so boundless he forgets to breathe. He is just there, a sum of his body and raw emotions. Something. Something that can only take and take and… Just be in the moment. Because Jaskier is the one in control. It’s him that decides about the movements. First slow and shallow. But as he takes the witcher more and more, he goes down deeper. His movements are slow but long. And smooth. So smooth. He flows over Geralt, hot and trembling and soft. The witcher doesn’t realize as his fingers dig hard into Jaskier muscles. They travel from his hips to his buttocks, spreading him even more open. And the man just gives him more. He just gives and gives. Faster. Harder. Deeper.

But he can’t just take it like that. He wants to give too. He wants to take Jaskier in his hand. He reaches for him, but the man is faster. He grabs Geralt’s wrists, mimicking his gesture from before, and leaning in he just traps them above the witcher’s head.

“Learn,” Jaskier commands, kissing him again.

His movements are frantic now. His kisses are sloppy. And he just moans into Geralt’s lips. They both do. The sound resonates in the chambers, but Geralt doesn’t care. He only cares about this body above him and around him. He only cares about the pleasure he can give to it. He only cares about Jaskier. And so, he thrusts faster and reaches deeper. He feels that Jaskier is close. His nails dig into the witcher’s skin. They’ll leave marks, and the thought of it puts him on the spot. He grinds his loins up. Once. Twice. And then he feels Jaskier shake above him. Warm cum covers their skin. The smell hits his senses. It smells like them. He smells like he belongs to this man. And that’s it. He loses it. He loses it inside Jaskier.

And suddenly his arms are full of warm skin and limbs. Jaskier collapses over him. He lets Geralt wrap him tightly, smooth waves of pleasure still washing over his body. And they just stay like that. Geralt doesn’t know and he doesn’t want to count how long they lie there. How long his hands make meaningless circles over Jaskier’s back. Or how long the bard leaves over his neck small and lazy kisses. And at some point Jaskier settles beside him, spreading comfortably along his body. His breath evens out. His heartbeat slows down. Geralt slips his finger into his hair. His fingertips stroke gently the shape of his head. He skims his lips, his chin, the delicate earlobe as he suddenly remembers something.

“Jaskier,” he whispers. “I also mean it.”

The man barely opens his eyes, but he still manages to smile and murmur, “What do you mean, Geralt?”

“Three words,” Geralt says quietly but surely. “Eight letters.”


	2. Chapter 2

Amazing (and insanely talented) [Dagnyart](https://dagnyart.tumblr.com/post/618468986581024768/another-beatiful-commission-for-leeeeeex-and-her#notes) agreed to work with me again and this is the result - my favourite moment from this fic. I loved writing it but I love this even more...

PS. Have you spot the details of their clothes??!?!? I mean?!?! HOW GOOD ARE THESE DETAILS?!

(And if you are in need of even more incredibly beautiful fanart go over Dagny's tumblr [here](https://dagnyart.tumblr.com/)!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yet another visualization! Please let me know if you like them and I should continue :)


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